There is at least one urban
myth about the Paddock that is still circulating in local bars.I know this because after a recent night out
with his now middle aged biking mates, my brother surprised me by recounting
the story when I visited him. What I
thought had passed to the realm of a few peoples memory seems, like all good
myths, to have developed a life of its own and to have grown with time and grey
hair.But I know the less exotic truth,
because I was there.

Let’s call the antihero of
this story Boomer, to protect the guilty you understand, for he is now a
settled family man and comes complete with a wife, a daughter and a
caravan.It’s a daft name I know, but
you should try finding one that hasn’t been used at some point by the myriad of
souls who attached themselves to this place, and given the subject matter to be
discussed here, I wouldn’t now want to attach stigma to any of the upright
citizens that we have become.To this
day, Boomer’s laughter is infectious, his sense of humour one that should be on
the stage. Back in the day though, his
easy going attitude, like that of many others, stretched to the downright
reckless.I’ll introduce you to him
shortly.

I remember a hot and sticky summer’s
day, a Saturday blast down the coast and then a return to the Paddock in the
evening.There were five or six of us
there, voices and traffic noises carrying in still evening air as the sun
started to set over the Antrim hills on the other side of Belfast Lough.Most of the normal crew had undoubtedly
gathered here earlier, bike-less and bound for the bars and discos that made up
our weekend nightlife.We few were still
chewing over the days run and deciding what to do with ourselves, reluctant to
give up the great outdoors for a dark and noisy club.In weather like this, there would be a
gathering here anyway, and the ‘craic’ would be good.

The peaceful evening wind
down was disturbed as a bike approached, separating itself from the towns
background noise.A throttle blipped as
someone braked hard, banked at the junction, then rolled to a halt in front of
us.The small blue Yamaha RS100, the
scuffed jacket and matt black helmet were instantly recognisable, but it was also
obvious that Boomer was already somewhat under the influence.With exaggerated care that only highlighted
his state, boomer climbed unsteadily off the bike and pulled it onto its
stand.A cigarette protruded at an angle
from his mouth over the chin piece of his helmet, its length indicating that at
least he hadn’t travelled far. Instantly, he was ribbed for riding in such a
state, but he brushed us off, arms flailing, and headed for the bars.We could only watch on in silence as he
tottered off.

Now during this provinces
well publicised troubles we got away with many things (I suppose the police had
other priorities), but despite attitudes that were more relaxed, drink driving
wasn’t one of them.It wasn’t just the
forces of law and order that disapproved of such behaviour either.We discussed Boomer’s condition and although
our reasons were protective rather than punitive, we resolved to teach him a
lesson.At first our discussion revolved
around disabling his bike in some way to force him to accept a lift home rather
than riding.The relative merits of
locks were debated, but in those days none of us routinely carried one.Removing at least one of his wheels was also
an option, as was hiding the bike.A
wheel would be too easily replaced though, and in his state, we couldn’t
guarantee that he would do the job well.Since we didn’t want to make the situation worse by making his bike as
unsafe as its rider, hiding the bike was our only decent choice, but where?

Although a 100cc Yamaha two
stroke isn’t a heavy bike, no one would want to carry one too far, so we looked
around the Paddock for a suitable hiding place.Boomer had either to be unable to find the bike, or sufficiently
deterred from trying to ride it home that he would give up and accept a
lift.Hell, if he could just be
persuaded to pass the keys to someone else, we would even bring the bike home
for him as well.Simply moving the bike
out of sight was not an option since when found, Boomer would just carry on his
very merry way despite our protests.The
railing between the Paddock and the sea, over which ‘The Yellow Submarine’ had
been launched, was high, spiked on top, and anyway the ledge beyond it was
narrow and precarious so this too would not work.As other solutions were passed around and
rejected, an idea for the ultimate deterrent eventually came to the fore.

The flat roof of the shelters
was relatively easily accessible.At
occasions like Halloween, when the Council put on a fireworks display on the
old Victorian wooden pier adjacent to ours, we and many others had often used
the shelters as a place to get an unobstructed view.The roof was only around 10 or 11 feet high,
and a sea wall just outside the fun fair that occupied the other half of our
pier butted onto the building, providing easier access.By this time a few others had joined us, so with
two people on the ground, two on the wall, and two more on the roof, Boomers
Yamaha was soon passed from ground level, to those on the wall, and then like
an advertising sign for the Paddock itself, to its new parking place on the
flat roof. Congratulating ourselves, we
then sat back and waited for the show to start.

At kicking out time, Boomer
duly appeared, tottering towards the place he had left his bike while keeping a
close eye on the rest of us.Not a word
was said.It was amazing how close he
got to his ex parking spot before a notion registered through the alcohol that
something was wrong.The bottom half of
his body appeared to stop before the top, disbelief replacing the happy
inebriation on his rapidly whitening face.Seconds elapsed with no movement, Boomer looked like he had just seen
the Medusa and turned to stone.At first
he turned slowly, as if he doubted his navigation and expected to see the bike
just outside his field of vision.Another pause, then suddenly he moved again, upsetting his balance. Determination now showed in clamped mouth and
as fixed a stare as he could manage in his condition.As he lurched off towards the rear of the
building to check the obvious hiding places, he must have glanced up, and again
he froze.Then the air turned blue as we
were collectively damned.Boomer stomped
up and down cursing the world and our future offspring as a few brave souls broke
off from his appreciative audience and tried in vain to break into his
repertoire to make him see sense.But a 40%
proof plan must have been forming and Boomer was not to be defeated so easily.

While Boomer was still drunk,
the steadying effects of an adrenaline rush are not to be underestimated.The once staggering Boomer made roof height
with relative ease, and we watched with amazement to see what he would do
next.He checked the bike, then a slow
repeated walk from it to the edge of the roof followed, Boomer looking downward
each time to check the height.A slow
realisation came over the audience that Boomer planned to jump.Believe me; Steve McQueen’s famous stunt in
‘The Great Escape’ would have had nothing on this one. Boomer would have had to clear a pavement and
a brick wall before landing on the putting green. The run up to the jump would have been 12 feet
at best, and should he have managed to land safely, there was minimal space to
allow him to control the bike and brake (on grass) before hitting another wall.
His condition was unlikely to have
helped either.

This is the point at which legend
and truth part company.The inebriated
wreck that was about to happen spurred us to action , but by the time a few of
us had got onto the roof, Boomer was already sitting on the bike, the key was
in the ignition, and he was donning his helmet.We surrounded him, although he protested and tried to push us away.Fortunately, in the confusion that followed
someone had the sense to grab Boomers keys, and from that point on whatever
plans Boomer thought he had were doomed.It still took a while for him to accept his defeat, but eventually we
got him calmed, everyone returned to terra firma, and then he and the bike went
home separately.

In Myth of course, Boomer
made the jump, and since he is still here to tell the tale, must have slithered
successfully to a halt with no lasting damage, and even got home safely without
police detection or further incident.Conveniently,
fable makes no mention of how Boomer managed to get his Yamaha over the 4 foot
high wall that surrounded the putting green, for even if we had been uncaring
enough to let him leap, we would still not have helped him clear this obstacle
and drive home.Truth may be more
mundane than the fiction that has grown around this story, but I’m certain that
it provided Boomer with a softer landing than he would have had otherwise, and
I’m sure too that his hangover the next morning would have been enough pain to
deal with without any additions. The years
that have passed since may have tamed us, providing too much evidence of our
limits and our mortality.That so many
of us survived this reckless youth, hopefully means that we gained a little
wisdom along the way. That most still
have bikes, must hint at the comradeship formed back then and at the enduring
appeal of two powered wheels.

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